“The creative arts foster within us an aesthetic appreciation of our world and of ourselves. Writing enables us to share our innermost thoughts with others. It may create a tranquil world, a chaotic world, or a world filled with hope.” So said Mrs. Alberta Saffell Bell on the occasion of establishing the Alberta and C. Gordon Bell ’50 Memorial Endowment of The Cauldron in honor of her late husband. C. Gordon Bell often stated, “All writing is the sound of one voice speaking, and all writing can be heard.” As a writer, journalist, and publisher, he committed his time and energy to helping others fulfill their dreams of writing and of keeping their voices alive. The endowment is intended to insure a medium of expression for Kent School’s student writers and artists through The Cauldron. In establishing this endowment Mrs. Bell further said, “I can think of no better way in which to honor the memory of C. Gordon Bell ’50. It is
Cover image: Brandon Fong, Siesta Hour, photography
a gift of love in memory of a man and his love for the lively art of writing.” C. Gordon Bell ’50 was a publisher and owner of The Gardner News in Gardner, Massachusetts, a family-owned newspaper for over a century. Mrs. Bell is currently managing editor of The Gardner News. Her late husband and his twin brother, Shane, were both members of the editorial staff of The Cauldron in 1947, the year of its founding. Kent School’s student writers, artists, and photographers dedicate each issue of The Cauldron to Alberta Saffell Bell and to the memory of her husband, C. Gordon Bell ’50, in appreciation of his past and her current loving commitment to The Cauldron.
Erin Cho, Accordion Man, scratch board
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The Cauldron
Editor in Chief: Melissa Yukseloglu Art Editor: Cecilia Barnhill Literary Editors: Paul Mailhot-Singer Sally Jee Layout Editor: Prim Sirisuwannatash Editors at Large: Brandon Fong Nam Pham Faculty Advisor: Joseph McDonough
2016
Poetry
Audrey Zhang The Impossible Brandon Fong Lukewarm Together Sway Kaori Yasunaga Remember Me On the Night You Sailed to Sea Paul Mailhot-Singer Thursday Night Frogs Sally Jee When the Clock in His Bedroom Stopped The Fire Alison Robey The Closet Bryan Chong Explanation Joelle Troiano Roadkill (Black and White and Red All Over) Gentle Heart Phantom Limb Serena Hou Morning Dew Tiger Li Bloom Chris Lubin Walk in the Wild Charlotte Kwong The Ride Christina Khalil The Beach Simon Green Thesaurus Thomas Alexander Thinking About You
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Prose
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Sally Jee Trust No One But Us Victoria Wang The Camp Night Brandon Fong Jigsaw
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Brandon Fong, Broad, photography
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Photography
Meimi Zhu Ice Cream Otherside Shadows Brandon Fong Breakfast Special Valley Land Redondo Landing Silhouette Chesapeake Michael Eustace Enthymema Jackie Hu Net
Mixed media, Ceramics
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Erin Cho Old Woman and Child Untitled Nam Pham Lotus Cleansing Music Box: Music Held Me Down Kaori Yasunaga At Risk Pann Boonbaichaiyapruck Spiky Ana Tikhonova Lion
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Painting, Drawing
Kaori Yasunaga Portrait Spring Daybreak Storm The Clown Ailsa Jones Opened Summer Buckshaw Joker Contempt The More You Speak Daylight Lulu Swartz Doodle #2 Austen Stockdale Dawn On the Horizon Erin Cho The Masquerade Jenny Wang Vortex Bridget De La Torre A Sloth Eating a Leaf Teddy Simson Cheetah Giraffe Skull
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The Impossible Audrey Zhang
Meimi Zhu, Ice Cream, photography
Trying to eat a Napoleon cake elegantly But it collapses when it meets my fork Trying to enter the dorm room swiping the card once But the red lights on the lock keep flickering Trying to take a stroll and appreciate the autumn view But the wind is pushing me back under my quilt Trying to laugh alongside all the people But I feel like a tree in the zoo Trying to look mature like an adult But I become a child whenever I see you
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Kaori Yasunaga, Portrait, watercolor
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Erin Cho, Old Woman and Child, mixed media
Brandon Fong, Breakfast Special, photography
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Lukewarm Brandon Fong
It was you and I, and a table, a cup of coffee between the two of us. Freshly pressed, as if your regular client deserved first-class treatment. I’ll take that as a compliment. It starts off slow, the standard greetings. How are you? The kids are well, yes? Quips of mundanity, the stalling of time, side-stepping the void separating us. I hoped we wouldn’t have to talk about it. Issues, detachment, she says “it was meant to be”; these are all vague words, no meaning lying underneath, as if you can feign your sympathies in the complexity of your speech. I listen blindly to the birds outside. Don’t they just have the best of luck, the birds of the air, taken by the wind, suddenly caught up in a favorable draft, launching them high into the sky. I guess our wind just died out. We reconciled and moved on, to put it briefly, a collective agreement to not pursue it further. There is a limit to our understanding, after all. More coffee? No, I’ll have to pass. I hardly touched my own. It used to be you and I, and that table, a cup of coffee, meant to be shared. It grew lukewarm, basking in the open sun. We shielded our eyes to avoid the glare as we became blind to one another.
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Nam Pham, Lotus, mixed media
Remember Me Kaori Yasunaga
The clamorous room is full of flashing lies, And blank and still we stand beside the wall: Just staring at the wriggling crowd, he sighs, Will you remember me, with voice so small: We walk abreast along the empty square, Where street lamps burn and stars fade far away: His timid fingers almost touch my hair, And like the willow trees in breeze we sway: A milky morning streak runs in the east, As shadows pass me through and fade in black: He too, is now a remnant of the ceased, Again, I stand alone and hear the clock:
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Will you remember me, and how I love To taste the raindrops falling from above?
11 Kaori Yasunaga, Spring, pencil
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Thursday night frogs fell from the sky Paul Mailhot-Singer
One Thursday frogs fell from the midnight sky. Their bare, limp bodies thumped against the ground, Their skin was pale and green like key lime pie. In streaks, across the sky they fell—earthbound. Low empty streets with not a soul in sight Aside from he who danced among the frogs, Content and bright he waltzed that stormy night— For once it wasn’t raining cats and dogs. All night, frogs struck car roofs with a loud thump, An endless beat made up the twilight’s verse An 80’s disco tune with a sweet bump. Bright Technicolor lit the universe. Anon the night grew pale and then was gone, One Thursday night frogs fell till early dawn.
13 Brandon Fong, Valley Land, photography
Trust No One But Us Sally Jee
Serenity is dreadful when you expect something to happen. When you began doubting the pills you took, fully conscious for half an hour now, unable to stop staring at the scratches on your closet door. But things did happen all right, slowly at first and then all at once. The closet sank into a sea of lights and shapes, and noises melted into a whirling puddle. What happened next must have been some perverted by-product of the pills, or at least that was what you thought. Orange shadows leaped about, and once or twice you heard someone scream. All time was lost.
But by the summer of 1997, Li was pregnant, and you understood why he had been so patient with her. Your mother was hysterical. She screamed and hit Li like a madwoman, but Li could only ask “why?” When Li mumbled that it hurt, your mother had told her to shut up, just as the boy had done before. Someone might hear her. If anyone found out, he would have to leave. He was nice again when he was finished. Li was scared that he would leave. When he did leave, three days before you and your mother found out, Li refused to go to sleep until he returned. Every night she fell asleep waiting on the living room sofa.
Then, everything cleared away; you saw a plain of white, whiter than fresh snow. Like a newborn, not yet touched. You remembered the summer days. Li was still alive then. When she died, summer went with her and never came back.
You never waited with her. No one did. In the darkest of nights, Li was awake alone.
People called Li a retard. Little kids pointed at her in the streets. Neighbors told your mother that she shouldn’t be out of the house alone, though Li was never a danger to anyone but herself. But the boy had always been nice to her. Mom used to say that we should be grateful for him. No one else had the patience or the nerves to deal with such a grown woman, who had the mind and giggles of a child.
You heard a scream. A scream of pain you had never known before, never even imagined was possible. That night, summer screamed its dying breath as the baby tore through Li’s insides. You thought you might meet Li on your way, but instead, the damned pills just kept replaying that moment summer died.
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Sometimes, no, more than some times, you thought that you were the ones who killed her. Not him, but you and your mother.
Now you saw white again, but not the pris-
tine baby white of before. It was streaked and greasy, tainted with grey.
Kaori Yasunaga, Daybreak in Kyoto, pencil
It took you a few minutes to realize that you were staring at the fluorescent lamp on your bedroom ceiling. Still some more to realize that you weren’t dead: you’d been screaming all along. 15
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The Closet
Kaori Yasunaga, At Risk, digital imaging
Alison Robey
You have the key to the door but can’t get it in right Hands are too shaky by the end of the night. You walked all the way home, you made it this far All the time hoping for a house left ajar. You came down the road (your car was long gone) Your feet had to travel what wheels should be on. You came from the brightness the party, the lights, men in tuxedos, and women in tights. White teeth on faces, Smiles and hair makeup and brushes Like someone would care. You sailed with the people, the winds of their voices, Till you found the same hand who made all of your choices. Tucked back in a corner Alone in the crowd Hushed whispers and smiles Midst everything loud. Then end of your story. Drink spilled on your shirt, the people that saw you made everything hurt. And now you have made it. You’re safe from the storm. But you can’t get inside. He was everything warm.
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Nam Pham, Cleansing, mixed media
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Nam Pham, Music Box: Music Held Me Down, mixed media
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Explanation Bryan Chong
So it’s been about a week Eleven days actually Since I’ve had the urge to speak To you, I just want to be free Of my pain, to see you two Together, tearing me apart, It hurts so much, it hurts like a screw That was driven into my heart I don’t mean to hate you I really don’t, but it’s just My muscles tense up, it’s like they knew That I could not trust Life to work out how it should You are like a sun And me, a dry, hollow piece of wood The heat forces me to run The light, blinding my eyes Forcing my head down and away I would look if I could bear the cries In my heart, where you are prey To the unrestrained, dangerous hate That fails utterly to think straight I hate you so much I forgot What I liked about you in the first place Right through my heart you shot Away the part that holds our memories, the last trace Was gone when I saw you walking up the stairs To the study rooms and her after The cracks in our relationship, the tears Are now a complete rift, and anger Dominates my feelings for you
With resentment and jealousy How you won was such beauty
Ailsa Jones, Opened , oil on canvas
I’m not even sure I want to salvage this anymore All I ever did for you was try to care But I cannot even do that, for You never tell me anything, you never share Except for those noodles we used to cook And those pencils that I kept taking It seems as though I am the crook So tell me why I should keep making These efforts to let go, to reconcile It would only be for my own sake But even that will take me more than a while For any glimpse of you or her makes me ache And sour and bitter But please understand that I do not choose To hate, my heart tells me not to be a quitter My mind is just under your abuse Well, it’s actually my own abuse, yet I can’t help but accuse I’ve toiled my night away on this Even though my exam is at eight So I guess in some screwed-up way I still miss You and the laughter we had before this date I’m sorry, even though I don’t know What I am apologizing for, I actually do not Want to submit, to bow low Perhaps someday I will vanquish the thought Of pain and anguish upon my sight Of you and her, but it’s not tonight.
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Roadkill (Black and white and red all over) Joelle Troiano
This morning—8 AM—I passed it by, A life not touching mine or much at all, A roadside twitching tail to swat the flies That swarmed and swarmed upon its bloody sprawl. They said it was a lightning storm that swirled —growing up—they said it was a fight. They said it was a technicolor world Draining into a life of black and white. They mumbled, “Oh, that’s roadkill. Nothing more.” (Cue restless eyes and ever-shifting feet) Existence—hear the cynics!—it’s a chore; That squirrel’s nothing more than wasted meat. But don’t you have a heartbeat? feel a pulse? They say life’s not a miracle? That’s false.
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Summer Buckshaw, Joker, pencil and ink
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Together Brandon Fong
Meimi Zhu, Otherside, photography
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Gentle Heart Joelle Troiano
Lulu Swartz, Doodle #2, ink
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Austen Stockdale, Dusk, oil on canvas
Morning Dew
Serena Hou
Bloom
Tiger Li
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Erin Cho, The Masquerade, ink
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A Walk in the Wild Chris Lubin
Ponds glimmer and gleam Trees stand tall and lean Leaves hang stick to stem Rustled by faint purr Followed by near Zwer! Grounds of smeuse Beneath our toes Shivelight here upon a cotton rose
Michael Eustace, Enthymema, photography
Trail of such Wonders I Do transcend Nature Here I Mend
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Summer Buckshaw, Contempt, pencil and ink
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Summer Buckshaw, The More You Speak, pencil and ink
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The Ride
Charlotte Kwong Now or never: In the O four hundredth hour. It seems: dark shadows like ghosts Running away to where we drive ahead Engines roaring in the lonely atmosphere Heart pumping; hands shaking. But now, sounds of notes echoing Losing sight of the highway ahead. Blocking out the finite things That wreck the soul. Like frostbite leaving nothing but emptiness. Or it seems: Drowning in a whirlpool, With an outstretched hand yet nothing on the other end. If now, I were to unplug; Doomed to be last. Cold blood circulating rigorously, I knew – in the O four hundredth hour: It was now or never.
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Meimi Zhu, Shadows, photography
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The Beach Christina Khalil
In the midday heat of a tropical sun, The majestic tortoise climbed onto the Sandy shore; the rays of sunshine reflecting On its dark, shiny back. The sand welcomed the gently rushing ocean, Taking the shimmering shells And glistening rocks Back to its home.
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The clouds soared through the deep blue sky, Concealed the sunlight, Like an umbrella blocking the rain, As darkness approached. The majestic tortoise, Frightened by the nightfall, Crawled back into its comforting habitat In the gently rushing ocean.
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Brandon Fong, Silhouette, photography
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Jenny Wang, Vortex, watercolor and pencil
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When the Clock in His Bedroom Stopped Sally Jee I cleaned his trash bin full of yogurt wraps. He never said a word and fine by me, Or so I thought, but once he spoke: he taps My shoulder, saying, I cannot let things be. His hands were shaking, fluttering in the air. I called his daughter’s cell and he looked down, As if he never meant to call, to dare Disturb the peace. I realized he’d soiled his gown. The daughter never answered. Call once more? I asked and he said no, ashamed and relieved. Excuses made (my throat, it’s just too sore) To think that this was truly what he believed. The clock in his bedroom stopped; I heard it crack. The body trolley glided down its track.
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39 Pann Boonbaichaiyapruck, Spiky, photography
Ana Tikhonova, Lion, mixed media
The Camp Night Victoria Wang
My three closest friends Amy, Lily, Cindy and I go camping. After hiking from my car, I set up camp three miles away and build a camp fire. As we are sitting around the fire, one of my friends reveals a deep, dark secret that turns a fun weekend into one of the scariest of my life. Amy told us that last night, she was attacked by a vampire and half of her blood was sucked by the vampire. Tonight, if she can find someone and also suck his or her blood, she will be a real vampire. She has to choose one of us for the blood, and that person can make chance for the rest two of us to run away. Then, the problem is: Which of us? It is nearly midnight. Finally, we reach an agreement to choose that unlucky girl by drawing. I take out three pieces of small notes and only one of them has a small spot on it. The girl who picks the note with the spot will be the one
who has to stay with Amy. I let my two friends draw the notes first, and I just take the last one they leave. We open our notes together. Surprisingly, I find the spot on my note. I don’t want to die or also be a vampire! I told myself. An evil idea comes into my mind and I have already done it before I realize. I knock down Lily who is just standing beside me and immediately begin to run with Cindy. As I look up, I find that the moon is full. I am not able to care about Lily any more. Cindy and I are just running as fast as we can. But three miles are too long. We soon become tired and want to take a rest. After about half an hour, we finally see my car, and there is also something in front of my car. When we come closer to my car, I am frightened to find that there is Amy and Lily. Lily is staring at me with great hatred. Cindy and I are scared and begin to scream, but we are here in the mountain; no one can save us now.
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Teddy Simson, Cheetah, mixed media
Bridget De La Torre, A Sloth Eats a Leaf, scratch board
Teddy Simson, Giraffe Skull, watercolor and pencil
Thesaurus Simon Green
Titanic, arching scabrous feet collide against the soil. I rank among a land of giants, the menial, and the royal. It proves to be a remonstrance to march against the sauropod Distinct, divergent, tedious, and often feel a sore of heart. No one likes standing out in a crowd, or differing from the norm. Never contradict, stay out of harm’s way, or face the eye of the storm. By no means, I say! Flush those plates, Unhinge that toothy grin! Thunder the earth undaunted, and sense the primal beneath your skin. Be unwary of each other’s pleas, remarking your “abnormal” eruption To ceratops, ’tis a murder, but to the raptor, ’tis a luncheon. It seems unethical and rattling to defy the mass, the gods have fidelity, virtue, and parade betwixt the theropods. There is no instant change-of-heart, might take hundreds of millions of years, But your claws will be fine, your roar explosive, and your teeth serrated as spears. Liberating your bona fide aptitude stands laborious for minds complex, Stay desirous, transcend the usual Mimus, and emerge Tyrannosaurus Rex.
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Kaori Yasunaga, Storm, pencil and ink
Sway
Brandon Fong Stooped low over her ironing board, Her arms swaying calmly to and fro As the boughs of the wise gingko do During the violent throes of a storm She swears this to be a truth – The greatest gift endowed by our creator is The ability to dance, to be fully possessed By inner and incomprehensible joys. That night, we swayed our souls To the perfect rhythm of four-four time. Sweet sounds of Sinatra sank slowly As she dreamt of a different world Where time did not fly so fast as The leaves that swirled around them As they stood, hand in hand, heart to heart Beneath the swaying gingko tree.
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The Fire Sally Jee
As the city ran backwards, I, from the backseat, was looking at The black, balding head of a man I was to call father. As we drove past the gray buildings, He asked me if I remembered the house We used to live in, he and mom and all, When I was very little. I said no, I didn’t. I remembered there were three red swing sets In front of the house, In a yard full of baby grass. I didn’t tell him; What he wanted, I didn’t know. There were three red swing sets In front of the house, In a yard full of baby grass. She tied me up on the middle one. I must not have cried, For who could have left a crying child? I must have been very still. My usual self. I couldn’t watch her leave; My eyes were too full of the flames, The beautiful, voracious orange That consumed the house And glided towards me.
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Jackie Hu, Net, photography
Summer Buckshaw, Daylight, pencil and ink
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Phantom limb Joelle Troiano
that night, we talked about atoms. you told me about protons and neutrons, about energy and empty space, about things I thought I already knew but had never really noticed until you said them. then you told me about the repelling forces. told me how nothing is ever really touching. told me how you and I weren’t touching as you laid your hand on mine. we stayed there a while, silent in the dark as we stargazed my ceiling, and I thought about how strange it was that we couldn’t be touching while your fingers traced my palm. that night, we talked about atoms and how, through all their vast emptiness, they make something solid. I don’t know how they do that, but if you do, please tell me. because I know we’ve got empty space; I know the repelling forces won’t let us touch right now, but I figured if atoms can do it we can too.
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Jigsaw
Brandon Fong There is no greater pleasure than the smell of fresh puzzle pieces. As I dig my hands deep within the bag, the scent of an unknowing future reaches escape velocity and emerges in a cloud of unadulterated and perfect sawdust. Within this bag is the promise of hope, order out of utter chaos and meaning out of a swirl of color. These pieces gave me hope: in a future far enough out of my grasp to keep me reaching, with the temptation of a knowledge that was within my ability. The first rule of jigsaw puzzles: start with the edge pieces.
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There are two rules to jigsaw puzzles, and this is the first. “They are easier to find and they help you get a sense of the size of what is yet to be accomplished.” There was always a method to your madness, a silent, seemingly enlightened wisdom that made it appear as if you always knew. You were my guide through the void that was surrounded by those edge pieces, as piece by piece, I came to understand of how little I knew. How little I knew of each of those aluminum pie tins that you used to sort pieces into, forming small leaf piles of green, red and yellow. “Just start connecting the pieces, Grandma!” I was too hungry, desperately fighting against the
entropy that consumed my world. You never looked at the picture on the box. It ruins the surprise, spoils the fun, removes the challenge, etc. I just wanted to finish, wanted to take pride in knowing that I created something out of nearly nothing. Where I saw a task, you saw a journey, a process, a deliberation behind why and how things are accomplished. Always the visionary, you saw greater satisfaction not in the pride of completion, but in the self-confidence gained in the quest of a difficult task despite preset limitations. I dismissed you as being old. Do you remember the Washington Monument? A pale blazing monument to a hero, stark against a midnight sky. The full moon in all of its glory sits, disconnected from edge and obelisk, adjacent to the monument. The rest is darkness.
Kaori Yasunaga, The Clown, pencil
The second rule of jigsaw puzzles: the person with the last piece is the winner. I never won. You always tricked me into thinking we lost the last piece underneath the table, inside the carpet, inside the box. As I vainly searched, you would reveal the final piece from your pocket, place it discreetly in the puzzle and profess that it had been there all along. A benign ploy at the time, but with an adverse side effect: I never finished a puzzle with you. I never
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had the pride of feeling artificially superior, feeling like I had accomplished something on my own simply because I had laid the killing blow. I guess I see your point. I had a problem with expectations. With an unfitting pride that morphed into an excessive superiority complex. On my own, I was never able to finish a single puzzle, a fact that both of us knew but only one of us was willing to admit. It was easy to dismiss you, to dismiss your methods, to dismiss that you were simply baby-sitting me while you laboriously returned 1000 tiny cardboard shapes into their natural order. There were two unfinished puzzles. Remember that darkness? The darkness that we returned to the box after sitting untouched for weeks? You moved on, but I never stopped thinking about that darkness and the cruelty contained within that darkness. Five hundred or so pieces, pitch black, no distinguishing cues. What sadist created this puzzle? How could you be so calm? How could you not erupt in outrage over this absolutely absurd creation that some ungodly manufacturer deemed a “jigsaw puzzle�? That darkness never left my thoughts. I still remember the day. And I still remember the puzzle. One thousand pieces. Two panoramas of the
Golden Gate Bridge. Above, a stunning shade of crimson spans the bay in the daytime. Below, the same crimson inflamed by the setting sun. Beginning and end. We came to your house after the reception to clean up, to say goodbye. There was still a void there, a deep divide between the two bridges. I thought this to be the perfect metaphor: separation. The pieces no longer smelled of sawdust. There is a third rule. But I disobeyed it long ago. And when I disobeyed it I let the darkness plague my thoughts and it made me vengeful against the unjust puzzle maker that wasted my time. But I was jealous. I wanted to be composed, I wanted to be humble, I wanted to be methodical and patient. But I was never motivated. Somewhere between San Francisco and Marin County, I found myself, knowing what was lost and yearning to hold it yet again. I wanted to find order in this new chaos. To smell again the fresh scent of sawdust entering my nostrils and filling my body with that same thrill. Yet ever since, I have never again found that thrill. And these pieces are no longer fresh.
Erin Cho, Untitled, mixed media
Thinking about you Thomas Alexander
I can gaze at the red, green, and blue dots that make up your face on a screen. I feel you close in the palm of my hand, but I can kiss you only in dreams. I can navigate the Atlantic sea and Tuscan sky, from Prussian pastures to Thailand’s sand, from our generation’s rooftop I’ll shout: “Nothing is impossible ’cept meeting you again”
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Brandon Fong, Chesapeake, photography
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Austen Stockdale, On the Horizon, oil on canvas
On the Night You Sailed to Sea Kaori Yasunaga
On the night you sailed to sea Shimmered above us the unfulfilled dreams Raced around us the soundless cries On the night you sailed to sea Come, you breathed with a pensive smile Your eyes prayed, my eyes bled Gently you blurred in the shadowy swells The stars still brighter, the wind still wilder
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Yet comes the dawn to every endless night Tomorrow I will awake and feed the chickens
The Cauldron is published annually by a small group of dedicated students and teachers at Kent School, a boarding school of 570 students in grades 9-12 in Kent, CT. Both text and art, submitted anonymously, are selected by an editorial board of students. This edition is set in the Caslon font family using Adobe InDesign CS5. Most of the images are photographed with a digital SLR camera; others are scanned from prints. All of the images are formatted for printing in Adobe Photoshop CS5. Allied Printing of Manchester, CT prints and binds the magazine. This issue was printed on paper with 10% PCW. In addition, the power utilized to produce the magazine is generated from a combination of windpower, solor power and green energy credits.